Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set

by David Estes

  There’s a Jeep roaring past and I stagger into its path, probably looking like a zombie with the icepack strapped to my chin. I tear it off and let the half-melted cubes fall to the ground at my feet. The Jeep skids to a stop just in front of me, dust swirling around my legs. “I need to get to the witch hunters’ quarters,” I say to the disgruntled driver glaring at me.

  “We’re going past there,” he says. “But we don’t have orders to take you.”

  “You’ll get the orders when you get there,” I say.

  He seems to mull it over, and then shrugs. “Get in.”

  I squeeze in beside a large woman with a bullet sash across her chest, from shoulder to hip. She ignores me, cleaning her weapon, some kind of automatic gun that likely goes with the string of bullets she’s wearing like a piece of jewelry.

  A few minutes later we slide to a stop next to the Lincoln Monument. I stare at it. “Get out,” the driver says.

  “Here?” I say.

  “This is the place,” he confirms.

  There are a few people lounging on the steps, smoking cigarettes. No, not cigarettes, I realize, getting a whiff. All three of them have blood on their clothes—some on their skin, too.

  I jump out, say, “Thanks,” and half-jog to the steps. Behind me, the Jeep tears away. “Where’s Rhett Carter?” I ask the three joint-smokers.

  One of them laughs, another seems to look past me, and the third makes a wild gesture inside the Lincoln Monument.

  I take the steps two at a time and race inside. There are many more witch hunters, but these ones are either the wounded or the ones tending to the wounded. There’s a ton of blood, so much that it’s slippery under my feet, although I suspect it’s not all theirs.

  Chained against the wall is a familiar form. “Rhett!” I cry, running toward him. Hex, standing beside him, barks a greeting.

  A chick with rock-star hair and a crazy stripe down the center of her head steps in front of me. “Who the hell are you?” she says, in the same kind of way that I might say it if I was in her position.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Laney,” Rhett says, but I can tell he’s just saying it because he feels he has to. There’s no fight in his tone, like he already knows I won’t listen to him. He knows me too well.

  “Rhett’s friend,” I say. “Now get the hell out of my way or I’ll shave your ridiculous hair and shove it down your throat.”

  “Damn, girl,” rock chick says. “Feisty. You ever hunted witches?”

  Her question surprises me, and instead of pushing past her, I find myself answering. “By necessity only,” I say, which is mostly the truth.

  “We could use another chick with attitude,” she says. Hex, who’s moved over to me, paws at my leg, as if asking me to consider the offer.

  “Unchain Rhett and I’ll think about it.”

  “Can’t,” she says, bending down to scratch Hex behind the ear. “Who’s a good widdle boy?” Hex licks her hand, clearly enjoying the attention. I raise an eyebrow—I wouldn’t have pegged rock-chick for a dog lover. She stands and looks me in the eyes. “He’s a traitor. The president’s got to decide what to do with him.”

  A traitor? Not this again. “Rhett, what happened?” I ask, craning my neck to look around the witch hunter.

  Hex answers with a series of barks that almost sounds like he’s trying to explain everything. “What he said,” Rhett says.

  “Be serious,” I say. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “You should listen to your friend, Rhett,” says Rock-Chick-Girl. “The president could kill you for what you did.”

  I step forward, until my face is mere inches from hers. “What. Did. He. Do?”

  She doesn’t back away, seeming perfectly comfortable with my invasion of her personal space. Her eyes flick from my lips to my eyes a few times before she responds. “He passed up a golden opportunity to rid the world of the Necros’ second in command, the son of the Reaper.”

  My heart sinks. This was exactly why President Washington put a bounty on Rhett’s head in the first place. Because she was worried his friendship with Xavier Jackson would make him favor the Necros, or even help their cause. She won’t let this go easily.

  “Let me talk to him,” I say, rocking back a half-step. “Please.” The strength and anger has been sapped from my voice by the truth staring me in the face. Based on the world’s new set of rules, he really could be executed for what he did. Or more for what he didn’t do.

  The witch hunter stares at me for a moment, her rich, brown eyes seeming to dissect me, but then her face softens. “Any weapons?” she asks.

  I reach for my Glock, but it’s gone, along with all my other weapons. They must still be somewhere at the infirmary. “No,” I say.

  “Ten minutes,” she says. “And don’t try anything, I’ll be watching.”

  I nod, shuffling forward when she steps aside, Hex trotting beside me. My eyes meet Rhett’s and I can see the pain in their depths. His eyes widen when he notices my bruised jaw. “What happened to you?”

  I ignore him and when I get close enough I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Ow!” he says. “What was that for?” When I glance back at Rock-Chick, she’s grinning.

  I flop down beside Rhett. “For being stupid. To snap you out of whatever funk you’re in. For insisting we come to New Washington. Take your pick.” Hex seems to nod his head in agreement, but then turns his attention to a bloody rag nearby, at the base of Mr. Lincoln.

  Although my intention was the opposite, my words seem to thicken the haze around him. “Sorry I asked,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing his hand, which is so warm it’s like he microwaved it. He looks at me curiously. “None of this is your fault.”

  He lets out a sarcastic chortle. “Right. I’d say everything you just said is pretty close to the truth.”

  “Cut the self-deprecating crap,” I say. “It doesn’t suit you. You’re a freaking witch hunter, not the pathetically weak crybaby panty-wearing sissy—”

  “I get the picture,” he says.

  “—Sponge-Bob-watching frail little child that you were when this all started,” I finish.

  He manages a wry smile. “It’s almost like you knew me back then,” he says.

  “Xave filled me in on how many times he had to save your sorry butt from bullies,” I say. At the mention of his friend’s name, he looks away. Oops. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I guess I was all talk, huh? All that bullcrap about revenge and taking down the Necros and ridding the world of all magic-born. You can pretty much say ‘I told you so’ at this point.”

  “No thanks,” I say. “We’re all just muddling along trying to make the best decisions we can in a world where maybe there are no right decisions anymore. And you know what?” He shrugs, so I continue, lowering my voice so I’m sure only he’ll be able to hear me. “I would’ve done the exact same thing.”

  His eyes flick to mine and hold my gaze. “You weren’t there,” he says. “Xave was…controlling the corpses. And he raised them in almost no time at all. No waiting period, no months of brewing them, just raised them like it was nothing. His powers are strengthening. I think he’s stronger than the Reaper now.”

  It’s not at all what I expected him to say. “Did he attack you?” Somehow I can’t picture the heartbroken teenage warlock who I had long discussions with attacking anyone, especially his old friend.

  “Not him. His creations. It was awful.”

  My first reaction is to defend Xavier. What’s wrong with me? I hated the kid not that long ago, and now I’m on his side? This world is a topsy-turvy mural of change, as if some bipolar artist is swirling the colors and mixing them to suit his ever-changing moods.

  “Did the Necros come at you and attack?” I ask.

  “No, I told you, it was Xave’s creat—”

  I cut him off. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, did they seek you out? Did they go on the offensive?
Were they looking for a fight?”

  Rhett’s head jerks as he gets my meaning. “No, they…” His hand grips mine tighter. “We…we went after them. The scouts found them, and we hunted them down.”

  “So they were just defending themselves?”

  He nods slowly. “Yeah, but still. It was terrible.”

  Neither of us speaks for a minute, until the witch hunter woman holds up her arm and taps an invisible wristwatch. “Five more minutes, Floss. Please,” Rhett says.

  “What kind of name is Floss?” I say. “Maybe her father was a dentist?”

  Rhett smiles the first real smile since I got here. “Must’ve been a hard decision not to name her Molar.”

  “Or Cavity. That would’ve been a good one.”

  “Fluoride,” Rhett says.

  “Ruff!” Hex barks, which I think means Incisor.

  “Plaque,” I add.

  “I can hear you,” Floss says. “And you’ve got four minutes.”

  I don’t even care that we’re wasting time, because it finally feels like we’re okay again. Like maybe we can handle whatever’s coming. “Set the record straight, Floss,” I say. “Where’d you get your name?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but my parents named me Erin. Floss is a nickname the other witch hunters gave me when I used to use a French garrote to kill witches. They said I could floss a witch’s teeth and kill them in two seconds flat.”

  “Gross,” I say, thinking more about the prospect of flossing a witch’s teeth than the killing part. “Sorry I asked.”

  “Three minutes,” Floss says.

  “I went inside the White House,” Rhett says, changing the subject.

  “Did you take the official tour?”

  “There are witches in there,” he says, ignoring my bad joke. “A wizard, a Slammer.”

  “There are Pyros and Destroyers helping to guard the border,” I say.

  He rubs his chin. “There was a creature made from mud, too. A creation of some witch gang that’s helping the cause. The thing…spoke to me.”

  “What did it say?” I ask.

  He lowers his voice, so only I can hear him. “It told me to beware of the president.”

  “Oh come on,” I whisper. “She might be a prickly woman, but at least she’s human. Are you going to believe a mud-creature over her?”

  “That was my reaction, too,” he hisses, “but you have to remember that it’s not some mud-troll speaking. It’s really the witch or warlock controlling the mud-man.”

  “So you’ll trust some witch you’ve never met over the President of New America?” I ask. This conversation is getting ridiculous. At least the president was honest with us, even if we didn’t like everything she was saying. That’s more than we can say about the Reaper and the Necros.

  “I wouldn’t normally,” Rhett says. “But then Xave seemed surprised when I told him that there were magic-born allied with the president. He said that didn’t make sense with something his father had told him.”

  “So what?” I say, lowering my voice even further when I see Floss craning her neck to try to hear us. “The Reaper is always lying.”

  “I don’t know,” Rhett admits. “Something just doesn’t feel right. Like we’re playing connect the dots but some of the most important dots are missing.”

  “More like the dots have been eaten Pac-Man style by corpses reanimated by the Necros,” I say. Before he can contradict me, I say, “Look, Rhett, at least the president is trying to protect all these people. You might not like all her methods, but at least she’s trying. And she’s managed to form an alliance with some of the magic-born, which is no easy task.”

  “True,” Rhett says, although he doesn’t sound convinced.

  “Thirty seconds!” Floss calls out.

  Hurriedly, I tell him what happened at the border, specifically how my sister’s image was used to threaten the president. Just as I finish, Floss says, “Time.”

  “Five minutes,” Rhett says.

  “No,” Floss says. “Maybe you shouldn’t have wasted half your time speculating on the origins of my name.”

  “Maybe,” I say, “but it was rather fun, don’t you think?” She glares at me, but makes no sign that she’s going to put an end to our conversation.

  “Do you think your sister’s helping the Changelings?” Rhett asks.

  “No,” I say quickly. And then: “Maybe. I don’t know anymore. But I also don’t understand why they’d use my sister to threaten the president.”

  “Neither of us do,” Rhett says, running a finger across the top of my hand. I’m lucky to have him, even if he’s chained up like a wild dog.

  There’s the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires on asphalt. Floss looks back at us and smiles. “Your ride’s here,” she says.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Rhett

  I’m surprised when they let Laney come with me. Maybe it was the dark try-to-stop-me-and-lose-a-nut look in her eyes. In any case, the two male soldiers didn’t argue, just opened the door for her.

  Hex, on the other hand, is forced to stay back. Apparently Floss noticed some of his unusual skills today, because she simply said, “No weapons,” and held him back. He didn’t resist, shamelessly accepting a bribe in the form of a belly rub. I get the feeling he may choose her over me if it comes down to it.

  “Maybe they’ve decided to give you a tour after all,” Laney says.

  “If so, I want to sit on the throne,” I say.

  “You’re thinking of England,” Laney says. “There’s no throne for the president.”

  “Then what’s the point of being the president?” I say.

  “I bet the presidential bed is really comfortable,” Laney says. “Maybe they’ll let us take a nap on it.”

  “I don’t think I could,” I say. “The thought of all those presidents and their significant others getting it on would be too distracting.”

  “Rhett Carter, that sounds like the type of joke I would make,” Laney says. I think she means it as a compliment.

  We pull up to the White House, as if it’s nothing more than just another house. Shadows are already creeping along the edges of the pillars, the setting sun casting an eerie orange sheen over the steps and entrance patio. The sky is clear, which makes it easy to spot the Destroyers Laney mentioned; they’re flying patrols around the city.

  “Are you ready for this?” Laney asks.

  “No,” I say. “You?”

  “She’s just another person,” Laney says, as if we’re going to meet with my teacher after I got a bad grade on a test. “She’ll listen to reason.”

  We’re escorted along the same route as I was yesterday. Through the atrium, up the stairs, and into the red room, where President Washington is already waiting. Samsa and Charles Gordon are standing on either side of her, like bodyguards. If they were wearing suits and ear pieces they could be the new Secret Service. And for the first time since I met the president, she looks completely at ease in the presence of the magic-born, as if her previous timidity was nothing more than an act.

  I decide to take matters into my own hands. “Laney had nothing to do with any of this,” I say. “You should let her go.”

  “Shut your pie hole, Rhett,” Laney says.

  To both our surprise, however, the president turns her full attention to Laney and says, “I’m actually more interested in speaking with you than Rhett.”

  Laney frowns and I can see the confusion in her blue eyes. “Why?”

  “There was an attack on the border.”

  “I know. I was there,” Laney says.

  “You’re looking for your sister, right? She was taken by the witches?” I can sense a dark undercurrent to the president’s questions, but I remain motionless, my chained legs as heavy as lead weights.

  “Yeah, so?” Laney says. I admire her ability to carry off her response without giving away a thing.

  “Trish is her name, right?” The president’s questio
ns seem to build on top of each other, like black clouds gathering before an epic thunderstorm.

  Laney’s hard exterior finally cracks as she stutters her response. “Who told you? Was it Hemsworth? That bastard.”

  “No one had to tell me,” she says. “Your sister’s a witch, isn’t she? A Claire?” I finally realize why I could sense an edge to her questions. Because they weren’t questions at all, but statements. Knife-like statements intended to cut Laney to the bone.

  “I—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Laney says, looking as unsure of herself as I’ve ever seen her. She’s dancing like she has to pee, her face slightly flushed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t help me find her.”

  “I understand,” the president says, her cornflower eyes slashed with red streaks reflected from the velvety furniture.

  “You do?” I blurt out. Maybe Laney was right about President Washington. Maybe we can reason with her. But no, something isn’t right about her expression, about her tone of voice. She’s not the same woman from before.

  “Of course. Sometimes a lie of omission is necessary for the greater good.” Wait. Does that mean… “I certainly didn’t let you in on all of my secrets.”

  “Like what?” Laney asks, one of her hands going to her hip.

  “You’re going to help me capture your sister,” the president says.

  Laney takes a step forward, but stops when Samsa raises his huge hand, tightening it into a fist. Me, I’m more interested in the wizard, Charles Gordon, who remains statue-still. He could kill Laney with nothing more than a thought. “She’s not trying to hurt anyone,” Laney says. “She’s on our side. If we can just find her, I can talk to her.”

  “She’s allied herself with the Changelings,” the president says. “And they’re using her image as a threat to me.”

  Oh God. Something clicks. A dark and twisted key in a deadbolt of foreboding. The way the president is suddenly acting. Not scared of the magic-born, as if her previous fears were all an act. Seeming to know so much more than she lets on. The fact that the Claires were trying to intimidate her with Trish’s image, like a threat. Although it seems impossible, Trish and the president must have a history. Which can only mean…